


burning just right

by conchorde



Series: running from; going to [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Episode: e018 Juno Steel and the Final Resting Place, Reunion Fic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i swear hyperion city isn't sentient in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15130802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchorde/pseuds/conchorde
Summary: Over the roar of blood pulsing in his ears, Juno heard it.The man who held the gun to Juno’s head was crying.[Or; in which Peter Nureyev comes back to Mars with as much flair as you would imagine.]





	1. jagged little knife

**Author's Note:**

> I originally really just wanted a oneshot fic where Juno was the most sad since he left Nureyev. It turned into this reunion fic although it's The Most Angsty. 
> 
> Write what you want to read, folks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two months since Juno saw Nureyev. 
> 
> Hyperion City gave him three warning signs before he saw Nureyev again.

Hyperion City dug deep into the skin. It was the type of city, for all of its flaws and lack of humanity, for all of its glistening gold doors that covered up corruption, that hooked your heart with a jagged little knife, and pulled.

It was the type of city Juno just couldn’t shake, even when he met the man of his dreams, even when he asked Juno to go across the galaxy with him. God, how he wanted to go with, and God, how the city tugged on his heart, on his guilt, and Juno just couldn’t say no.

Even on nights like this, two months after Nureyev and several drinks deep with no signs of stopping, Hyperion City showed no compassion.

God, had it really been two months?

After another day of no cases (“I’m looking for someone with a little more...style, is all. You know anywhere a bit more upscale?” and others, cutting deeper: “I’m sorry, it’s just—how do you do expect to shoot your way out of a stakeout gone bad when you can’t aim worth a damn?”) he had shouldered his way out of the office, ignoring Rita’s exclamations.

“Hey boss! Where are you headed out so early? Want me to come with? Maybe we can go out and get manicures—ooh, manicures!—because maybe you shouldn’t be out on your own tonight, Mister Steel.”

He didn’t deserve her. Never had, never would.

The door had shut behind him, and Juno found the shittiest bar he could find, way in the depths of Oldtown. Back in the part of town where even Mick wouldn’t frequent. The part of Oldtown that was just beyond saving. And maybe that’s what he needed tonight because he couldn’t fucking be saved. He wasn’t worth it. That jagged knife twisted through his chest, and he had stayed, against his better judgement, because he wasn’t worth it. He knew people like him just didn’t get happy endings. His mother, his brother, and his lover had taught him that.

He slumped into a sticky barstool at the end and ordered a glass of whiskey. Two glasses. Back to the wall, eye on the door, Juno drank himself into oblivion. Trying to forget Nureyev.

Trying to forget the way he had smiled when he got the upper hand. The way he forgot he kept things in his pockets. The way he did things impulsively, but with every ounce of forethought.

The way he murmured Juno’s name, right before Juno walked away from him forever.

What he would do to forget that voice, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to forget Nureyev, not really. Just the way Nureyev had made him feel wanted, and goddamnit, desired, even. He just wanted to forget the way he had been loath to leave Nureyev, but did it anyway. That jagged knife had twisted deeper into his heart. Keeping him here.

Juno shook his head and tossed another one back, wincing as the whiskey burned just right on the way down. How many more before he forgot? Five, six, seven?

It was never enough.

That’s how he got here, the world slightly wobbly, out probably too many creds, and feeling too goddamn sorry for himself. So much that he almost missed the signs.

Say what he would about Hyperion City, but as much as he hated and loved it, the city had given him three warning signs, and no more.

First: Juno had six missed calls from Rita.

Not that he was about to pick up (in his state? You kidding?), but it was vaguely concerning, he thought as he ordered another glass. But it was probably that something dramatic happened in one of her soaps. Someone had probably fallen in love with someone and then that someone had up and left because he was a fucking fool who couldn’t keep anything good in his life.

If it was a new case, well…he’d find out about it in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever he made it into his goddamn office.

His comms buzzed again. Rita, again.

He clicked it to silent, watching the call ring out. She could wait, he thought, tossing back the drink he just received from the bartender. It couldn’t be that urgent.

Second: A mass of Hyperion City Police Department cars flew by the grimy bar windows.

That wasn’t exactly unusual, especially in this part of the city. Their blue and red lights flashed across the bar, alighting on perhaps the more unsavory parts of the room. Yeah, Juno didn’t really need to see that. He might have been a private eye, and he might have been raised in Old Town, but that was a lot of blood coming from that guy over there who must have just lost a fight.

Juno didn’t care to look at blood.

But it wasn’t that, Juno thought as he heard the sirens retreat, and then suddenly increase in volume as they turned around. Chasing some idiot perp who had tried to outrun the HCPD, which arguably wasn’t that hard if you knew the right people.

It was that the car that just sped by for a second time looked suspiciously like the RUBY7.

Juno chose to drain his glass instead of think about those implications.

Third: The television in the far corner of the bar had a news banner.

Another Kanagawa special played as the headlines flicked out across the bottom of the scratched screen. Juno took in the dramatic show dully and glanced at the ticker. Hoping to see something worthwhile, maybe something that would stumble onto his office doorstep in a few days’ time. The usual shit scrolled out: high-level (and low-level, who was he kidding) government corruption, a string of outrageous thefts—first a priceless diamond, taken right from under the owner’s nose, then an expensive car—the dangerous levels of air quality stemming from years of poorly-regulated pollution from Old Town plants, the weather. The list rolled on.

Wait.

High-profile thefts.

No. It couldn’t be. He must have left Hyperion City. He did leave. Why would he stay?

But it wasn’t like Juno had any way of telling if Nureyev was still in Hyperon City, let alone this star system. It wasn’t like Juno had left on any sort of good terms. It wasn’t like Nureyev owed Juno anything on the goddamn planet.

The bartender didn’t exactly look like she was coming back, so Juno reached over the counter and grabbed the bottle of whiskey the woman kept pouring Juno glasses from with increasingly dubious looks. Forgoing even a glass, he raised the bottle to his lips.

Nureyev couldn’t be here. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. That jagged knife of Hyperion City, of Juno’s regret, of his guilt, of his goddamn ineptitude, twisted itself further into Juno’s chest.

What would he give to hear Nureyev’s voice again?

Juno drained the bottle. Hell, it was half-empty anyway.


	2. liquor is thicker than blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno deals with the fallout from his late-night drinking, Rita, and a familiar scent of cologne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is getting far longer than I ever expected, so you may be in for a bit of a ride. Thanks for coming along so far. I'm expecting at least one more chapter (I'm writing this to avoid my essay, whoops). Stay tuned.

Hyperion City was a cruel mistress.

One day, you’re spending time with the man you love, intertwined in the sheets of a hotel room in the not-quite golden glow of the setting sun through the dome over the city. A name whispered on your cheek—gently, softly, with all the time in the world uttered in a single phrase—as you both look out over the unforgiving Martian horizon.

The next, you’re waking up alone with a splitting headache on the freezing floor. Tile? Probably. Uncomfortable? Definitely. It wasn’t the Ritz, that was the hell sure.

All in all, Juno had woken up in worse situations. At least he wasn’t currently in handcuffs.

Juno painfully pried his eyes open. The mid afternoon sun, filtered carefully by the dome around Hyperion City, came insultingly through his office window. Why did they turn the sun on so bright today?

Juno groaned, rubbing his calloused hands over his face before he made to sit up. It might not have been the worst situation Juno had woken up in, but not currently being held at gunpoint shouldn’t exactly be a reason to celebrate.

Granted, he was probably held at gunpoint more often than not. Occupational hazard.

What the hell, Juno thought, pushing himself regrettably off of the ground. Got to celebrate something. Got to celebrate something, else he would end up where he was last night: too many drinks deep; too many creds gone, and too many tears shed.

Apparently drinking himself into oblivion was the only fucking thing he was good at.

Juno bitterly fished out the shitty bottle of liquor he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk for a rainy day. He’d had a lot of rainy days lately. It was like a goddamn monsoon out there, though it hadn’t rained a drop out on the Martian desert.

Hyperion City really prepared him well for the real world, he thought. Raised him—not well, not the way a decent mother would, with an ounce of compassion or care or even love—but he grew up nonetheless. He grew up expecting a sharp slap in the face, literal or otherwise, after anything happened to go his way. Comforted only by his brother’s identical tears well into the night, until he no longer had a brother to take comfort in.

Yeah, he met a man that made him forget all of his troubles, and yeah, he had made Juno think that something, for once in his life, was looking up. But then Hyperion City whispered to him, digging that jagged knife into his jugular. _You don’t deserve him_ and _you’re just going to slow him down; why would he ever stay with you_.

The voice of his childhood was cutting. _Leave him behind, you little monster, he’ll never love you the way you love him_.

It looked like not being held at gunpoint was going to be the highlight of the day.

Juno raised the bottle, hating himself already, when he smelled it.

That musky, woody, somehow flowery scent. It had permeated Juno’s clothes, Juno’s hair, Juno’s apartment for days on end, before Juno eventually just opened all of his windows, damning the freezing winter air, and slept in his office for a week. The scent he had tried so hard to forget at the bottom of a glass of whiskey, last night and every night since Juno had walked out of that room.

The cologne.

It was brief - just a whiff - but it was his.

Nureyev’s.

Juno dropped the bottle. Amber liquid splashed over his desk; crystalline shards cascaded over his feet. He reached out to steady himself, as he was suddenly shaking, suddenly weak, and split open his palm on the broken glass. The red of his blood pouring from his slit skin mixed with the alcohol on his desk, swirling and twisting. They said blood was thicker than water, but was it thicker than liquor?

Juno was going to be sick.

Nureyev couldn’t be here. Couldn’t have been here. Juno had given him no reason to stay, no reason to go looking for him. Juno had up and left in the middle of the night, after promising to stay, after giving Nureyev his _word_ that he would stay. Why would he be here?

And then the scent was gone. The woody, flowery cologne of the best thief in the galaxy—his thief—was gone.

Juno shook his head. He must have been imagining things. It must have been the liquor, because there was no way in hell Nureyev would come back for him.

“Rita,” he called out. He stumbled backwards from his desk, still shaking. “RITA.”

Juno heard the faint echoes of her soaps from the other room. He made his way from behind his desk the three feet to the door (hey, it wasn’t like he could afford one of those luxury office suites in Halcyon) and slammed it open.

Rita jumped, quickly flicking the computer screen from a Kanagawa serial drama to a screen of something that looked vaguely business-like. Or something. Juno didn’t get computers. “BOSS! When did you get here? I’ve definitely been working on _all_ of those cases that we have and clearly not watching the latest Kanagawa drama because I would _never_ do that in a _million_ _years_ , boss. And I didn’t hear you come in and you _know_ I know everything that goes on in this office and—”

“Rita.” Juno said quietly, holding up a hand, trying to get her to stop her stream of enthusiasm.

“…but if I was watching the latest drama, “The Princess of Jupiter”, which I would _never ever_ do on the clock, it _would_ have been SO AMAZING. BOSS SO MUCH HAPPENED—”

Juno sighed. She just kept going. “Rita, please.”

“…and the princess got kidnapped and oh MY GOSH YOUR HAND, BOSS.”

“I know, I did my nail polish last night,” Juno shot back, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“But you’re BLEEDING. Look at it! There’s _SO MUCH BLOOD_.”

“And now there’s not.” The coat pockets could stem the most of it. Granted, he would probably have to either a) throw the duster away (which would be a goddamn shame) or b) get a bandage and send his coat into the dry cleaners. That was far too reasonable.

He mentally said goodbye to the duster. It had lived a good life but would be meeting the trash can very soon.

“But Mister Steel! That can’t be sanitary, and I don’t want you to get a blood infection like that Neptunian colony did on the streams last week and they _all died_ , boss! _ALL OF THEM_.”

“It’s fine, Rita,” Juno mumbled, feeling the slick of the blood on his hand. Yeah, the duster would have to go. “Listen. Has anyone come into the office this morning?”

“If by morning you mean five in the afternoon, then nope, sorry,” Rita said, twirling a pencil around her fingers thoughtfully. Juno didn’t think he had ever seen Rita use a pencil. Didn’t she just use like…computers and stuff?

“Are you sure? I thought…”Juno trailed off, cursing himself. Too much booze, Steel. He’s not coming back. Get your head back on right, he thought.

Rita’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being awfully weird about something here, boss.”

“I just…forget I said anything, all right?” Juno said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failing miserably. He turned back to his office door. “Let me know if any new cases come up.”

“Okay, Mister Steel. Also, did anyone tell you that you look just awful today? Where did you go last night, anyway?”

Juno sighed again, not bothering to turn around. “Good to know I look like shit, Rita. Nothing new on that front.” He turned the doorknob. “And I went to…visit an old friend. It’s personal, all right?”

Juno heard Rita ticking away at her keyboard. “An old friend…” He opened the door to his office, and made to go in, when—

“Oh. OH.” Rita exclaimed. Juno whirled around, just a little too fast. Rita was looking at a sticky note—since when did she use sticky notes?—“MISTER STEEL YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHO CAME IN TODAY.”

Juno barely dared to breathe. “Who, Rita?”

“It was this tall fellow,” Rita began, sitting back. “Dressed exquisitely. Kinda handsome, if I do say so myself. _Really_ charming. He left me a message—he knew his way around words, this fellow—and said his name was—”

“Nureyev.” Juno said. It came out in a whisper.

Rita looked at him. “What? No, it was Kilgarn Maxcine. Who’s—”

Juno flushed, regretting those three syllables that slipped so easily out of his mouth. “Forget about it. What did he want, this Maxcine?”

“Um…” Rita looked at the note, made a few clicks on her computer. “Said he was here to report a robbery. Well, not a robbery, exactly, but that he knew he was going to be robbed. He said he’s the owner of a priceless gold watch, see, and he had good intel that someone was going to take it…tomorrow night. Yep, that’s it. Tomorrow night, up on Highland Boulevard. The biggest house on the street. He wanted you to stop by that night and make sure the thief doesn’t take it.”

Juno definitely had been imagining Nureyev’s cologne. This couldn’t be him. He would never have come back. “Why didn’t he stop by the HCPD?”

Rita frowned. “Seemed like the type of fellow who’d had a run-in or two with the cops.”

“That makes two of us.” Juno’s heart had slowed back to a normal pace. “Right, okay. Thanks for taking that, Rita.”

“Any time, boss.”

Juno went back into his office, mind whirling. Saw the mess of the liquor bottle from earlier, that lovely reminder of his incompetence, and turned right around.

“Rita,” Juno called as he walked past her desk. She was immersed in her streams once again. “See you tomorrow.”

The sun was setting over Hyperion City—the city that had given him three warning signs and no more. Dark tendrils reached out across the pavement. It may have been an unforgiving city, full of corruption and absent of love, but it had dug its knife into Juno’s heart, and he was here to stay. For better or for worse.


	3. blood and flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno investigates the robbery of the Maxcine mansion.
> 
> Things don't exactly go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me as I wrote this! 
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter deals with heavy themes, both in the prose and in the plot. Heed the tags.

Hyperion City hid her scars deep within her sleeves. The lines ran deep—greed, lust, crime. Scarred twice over in a few parts, the tissue now just barely blotting out the life force that once seemed to ache and pulse through the cracked cement. Scarred twice over and grimy with the dust of generations.

Her scars were reflected in every shadow of the early morning light and in every light cast into darkness with setting sun. God, Juno just couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t escape Hyperion City’s icy fingers twisting down his spine, clutching his throat as he fought for breath all those years ago when his brother lay lifeless on the living room floor.

Hyperion City may have hid her scars from too prying of an eye, but they were there. Some faded and some new, but all of them— _all of them_ —ran deep.

The trick to finding out where those scars were wasn’t to cut her sleeves away, as much as Juno wanted to expose every inch of crime. The trick was to put the jacket on and make the scars your own.

Juno had so many scars.

Some, from Oldtown, when he laughed in the streets with Sasha and Mick ( _and Annie and Benten_ , a voice whispered in his head), always waiting for it to get better until it didn’t. Some, from the HCPD, when he aimed straight and true and then he wasn’t holding a HCPD gun anymore. Most, from chasing after criminals in the dead of night and getting his ass handed to him a dozen times.

And one, straight down his heart, from Peter Nureyev.

The man he loved, who stole the words from his lips and the keys out of his pocket. Who entered into his life easy and smooth and full of light, and who Juno left behind in favor of cold nights, burning whiskey, and a numbing sense of regret.

The man filling Juno’s thoughts as he sat in his shitty car just down the road from Maxcine’s mansion.

It was an hour or so after sunset. Juno hadn’t checked the time; he’d just left his apartment when it seemed sufficiently dark to break into someone’s house. The few stars visible through the haze peeked between the dilapidated buildings in the distance and reflected in the windows of the elegant homes lining the street. It would have been beautiful in any other city on Mars.

Nureyev couldn’t be here, he kept telling himself. It was just going to be a regular job that was going to finally pay him in the way that feeling sorry for himself didn’t. It wasn’t possible that it was Nureyev, he thought, for three reasons:

One: Rita said it was Kilgarn Maxcine —smelling of Nureyev’s cologne, charming Rita only the way Nureyev could—who came into the office to report the suspected robbery.

Two: There was no way Nureyev was on Mars because _he’ll never love you the way you love him_.

Three: Juno couldn’t face him if he was.

But then: a gunshot. Glass shattering. A muffled shout.

Juno’s head snapped up. _Goddamnit_. Grabbed his gun. Shoved open his car door and stepped out onto the dusty street.

Taking long strides, sticking to the shadows the way his skin remembered he had been taught at a much younger age—though he was still running from something rather than running to something—he made his way to Maxcine’s door.

Juno checked his blaster card, heart pounding in his chest. Four shots left, if he could hit any of them when the time came. Damning his eye, gun at the ready, he broke open a back window and slid inside.

Looked like Juno had turned up inside some lounge or den or _something_. It was too hard to tell with these Halcyon mansions, filled with rooms to make up for the lack of love.

Juno fought not to remember that he could just see his old house—not a home, never a home—from the end of the street. Full of empty rooms, empty promises and the second-worst day of his life.

Juno took a step, his boots crunching on the broken glass from the window. It was dead quiet inside, save for a ticking grandfather clock and Juno’s movements.

God, where had that gunshot gone off?

He crept across the room and down the hall, clearing rooms quickly. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

Juno made it up the grand staircase in the center of the house before he saw the ceramic vases shattered on the ground.

Before he saw the blood.

Juno turned sharply, placing his back to the wall, gun ready. God, there was so much of it. He couldn’t look. Red and viscous and seeping into the seams of the wooden floor. His stomach churned. Juno tried to breathe through his mouth but he smelled it anyway, that unnatural metallic scent of blood.

And then. Woody, flowery, impossible.

No. He must be imagining it, he told himself, breathing hard. It couldn’t be him. _No_.

Behind him, he heard a groan, and Juno was pulled back to the present. Halfhearted and half-gurgled and _oh god_ did that mean they had gotten shot in the neck? In the chest?

The scent was still there, flowery and foreign and mixing with the blood he couldn’t stop smelling.

For a moment, he was frozen. Crouching in the hallway on a rug that probably cost six months’ worth of rent, clutching his blaster and just smelling that cologne. It was woody and flowery with undertones of freshly washed sheets, regret, and the dust of a Martian City early in the morning without his lover by his side.

Another groan from behind him in the hallway and oh god they were going to die if Juno did nothing.

He tried to shove away the thought, but it came anyway, pervasive: _What if it was Nureyev?_

He found he couldn’t breathe.

He took out his comms and his hands shook. Juno’s hands never shook. His aim was true, every time. His hands had never shaken before. Not on a case.

With difficulty, he dialed.

“Rita,” Juno whispered hoarsely.

He heard a yawn on the other end of the line. “What is it boss? I was just about to—“

“Get an ambulance to Highland Boulevard. Someone’s been shot.”

“Mister Ste—”

Juno dropped the call, took a deep breath, and turned the corner, gun drawn.

There was so much goddamn blood Juno thought he was going to be sick over the rug that was arguably worth more than him.

With difficulty, Juno looked at the body and—

It wasn’t Nureyev.

Juno still couldn’t breathe because he could still smell that cologne and it mixed with the blood in the air and the blood—so much blood—spilling on the ground as he watched.

But the man on the ground was still breathing. The man on the ground saw Juno, standing there with his gun lowered, hands shaking. He made some noise. The same half-gurgle, half-moan as before. Weaker.

Blood poured out of his neck and Juno wished he was anywhere else.

Damning it all because _this man would die_ , Juno made one more furtive glance down the empty hallway before falling to his knees in front of the man. Back to the rest of the darkened house, he tossed his blaster to the side and tried to stem the blood but there was just _so much_.

The man grabbed Juno’s knee and tried to speak. “—who?”

Trying to ignore the blood that was covering his hands, his wrists, he managed, “Juno Steel. Private eye.”

The man lying on the ground shook his head, eyes wide. He didn’t recognize the name.

“Ouch, okay,” Juno muttered. “Guess I’ve got a forgettable face.” Granted, neither of them were great conversationalists at the moment, but that stung a bit. When the man who hired you for the job didn’t recognize you, that was a low blow.

Maxcine shook his head once again. One last tiny movement before he went still moments later. Not dead, not yet. But soon. Close. Knocking on the front door.

Juno couldn’t move his hands. Couldn’t breathe.

The blood just wouldn’t stop coming. Deep and red and spilling out onto the floor instead of pulsing in blue veins. The red dyed his palms, his fingers, his nail beds. A stain that would wash off of his skin but not his soul. Because goddamnit, if Maxcine died, it was on him.

Logically, he knew that the ambulance would be here soon, that he couldn’t do anything to help, but all he could see was the red of the blood. Staining his hands, his shirt. The blood spilled out of Kilgarn Maxcine, but all Juno could see was a different body lying on a floor in Hyperion City twenty years ago.

His bloodstained hands had shook then too.

He could do nothing to stop the first death, just like he could do nothing to stop Maxcine’s.

The world tunneled, darkening just a little on the edges, as he smelled that decaying iron scent of Maxcine’s blood.

Juno wasn’t sure he quite remembered how to breathe, after all. His lungs screamed at him but all he could see were glassy eyes the same shade of blue as his own staring back at him and _was this how it was going to end?_

Then, behind him:

A gun cocking.

That woody, flowery scent. Stronger than ever, stronger than how Juno remembered in his dreams.

The cool barrel of a handheld blaster touching the back of his head.

But no footsteps. Never any footsteps.

The world came back into focus, but Juno still couldn’t breathe. He didn’t dare look behind him, at his assailant who wore the same overpowering cologne as his lover. But it couldn’t be him. Could never have been him, because Nureyev would never harm him; would never dream of harming Juno.

But that was before Juno harmed Nureyev that early morning.

Juno pulled his hands away from Maxcine’s wound, dripping with the man’s blood, and carefully raised them.

Gun at his head, hands in the air full of the scent of his lover, Juno couldn’t say anything—still couldn’t breathe—but somehow he still found the words.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with,” Juno said softly, bitterly. “God knows I’m too much of a coward to do it myself.”

His hands still shook, stained with the blood of Maxcine; his brother; all who had come before him. Kneeling in front of a man who was likely dead, Juno was caught red handed and going to pay for crimes he didn’t commit.

The muzzle of the gun ground into his head. The hand that held it was unwavering.

His heart pounded its steady, steady rhythm. _Thump thump, thump thump_. For all of the times he wished he were dead, his heart told him no.

Over the roar of his blood in his ears— _not ready to die, not ready to die_ —Juno heard it.

The man who held the gun to Juno’s head was crying.

Slowly, carefully, still shaking from the blood and the overpowering cologne and the ever-present image of his brother’s body lying broken on the ground, Juno reached behind him. With hesitant fingers, he took the hand of the man threatening his life.

For a moment they just were: one comforting, one threatening.

And then, softly:

“You broke my heart, Juno Steel.”

What would Juno have given to hear Nureyev’s voice again?

The voice was soft and smooth and low. Exactly how Juno remembered and completely different at the same time.

“I never expected you to come back,” Juno replied, his voice barely above a breath.

The gun pressed harder into Juno’s skull. “I never expected you to leave.”

Juno released the man’s hand, submitting to the execution, raising his bloodstained hands once more. There was nothing more to say, because Juno hadn’t expected to leave the love of his life either. He hadn’t expected to come back alive from Miasma’s cavern; hadn’t expected to be half blinded and almost out a job.

Juno certainly never expected to fall in love with him.

“I never wanted to,” Juno replied shortly. His breaths came easy now. Not relaxed, not comfortable— _not ready to die_ , his heart cried, thumping ever harder—but Juno had caused this man so much pain. It was justified. It was his right because _he could never love Juno as much as Juno loved him_. “Just get it over with, already.”

One breath. Two breaths. Three.

A shot fired.

Juno opened his eyes, not having been aware of closing them in the first place. His hands were still raised above his shoulders. He was still kneeling in front of Maxcine’s body. But he was still breathing. Sound rushed back into his ears all at once.

“Goddamnit, Juno.”

Across the hallway, Juno could see the mark of the gun blast that had been meant for him, still smoking, embedded in the wall.

Shaking, Juno meant to turn, to look at the man who tried to kill him, who was once his lover, but the still-smoking gun was jammed into his spine. Juno stiffened.

“Was that just a warning shot, or are you actually going to do the goddamn thing?” Juno spat out. He just couldn’t help it. “Why keep a lady waiting?”

He was trembling and he couldn’t stop. While the man may never have been violent with Juno, Juno knew—had just seen—that he had the capability.

The voice behind him was low. He spoke quickly. “You’re going to stand up and face that wall. When the police come, because I expect you called them long ago, you will tell them nothing. You won’t have seen my face.”

It was true: Juno hadn’t seen his face ( _though he had recognized his voice and his cologne and his everything_ ). It was possible that it wasn’t in fact the man Juno loved.

Juno froze for just a moment, before he did as the man commanded. His blaster had been long-ago cast aside, and Juno knew he could never, _would_ never, shoot. He stood, stepping over Maxcine, hoping that he was just unconscious but knowing better. In three short strides, Juno was against the wall, hands up, blood streaking down the wall.

The gun in his back had followed the whole way, but never any footsteps. A master thief makes no sound.

“As much as I would love to stay, Juno, and make use of this lovely home,” the man continued, leaning in close. For a moment, all Juno could smell was his cologne and _g_ _od_ , how he wished he had never left. If he asked, Juno would be back in his arms in a heartbeat. Preferably without any guns between them the second time around. “I have a plane to catch. See you around.”

With the brush of a kiss on Juno’s jaw, Peter Nureyev was gone.

For seconds--minutes—Juno waited, not moving a muscle, until he heard the familiar sirens of the HCPD.

When Captain Khan came storming in, having heard that twenty men had been shot and that there was a bomb (Rita sure knew how to exaggerate things), Juno did as Nureyev had asked. Juno never saw the man’s face, he told Khan. Never saw anything.

He just smelled the beautiful woody cologne. Felt the brush of a kiss on his skin and the blaster to his head. Heard one gunshot, then two. Tasted fear and blood and a brush with death.

Juno never saw anything.


	4. meeting again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno goes home or; an epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thanks so much for this adventure. I hope you enjoyed it.

After an hour—or was it two?—of questioning, Khan regrettably let Juno go. He hadn’t seen anything. He hadn’t done anything wrong except perhaps break a window, though the security deposit and liability waiver Rita pulled up in Maxcine’s name cleared him of those charges.

If Kilgarn Maxcine ever signed those papers, if he ever even visited Juno’s office, he took that secret with him to the grave.

When he left Maxcine’s Halcyon mansion, Juno was no longer shaking, no longer weak, no longer smelling blood and foreign scents. It was properly night outside, with a scattering of stars visible in the forever haze of Hyperion City.

He just felt empty. Numb. Reeling with the shock of finding—never face to face, never confirmed—Nureyev again.

In a sort of daze, thick as the smog that coated Hyperion City, Juno drove to his office. Sleep didn’t seem necessary tonight, he thought. Perhaps only the bottom of a bottle of the shittiest alcohol he could find.

Because Peter Nureyev had returned to Mars. He returned not the way he came. Not smoothly and thought out and impeccable, but impulsive. Violent.

Heartsick.

Juno twisted his key into the lock of his office door. Opened it. Walked past Rita’s desk, on his way to the backup to the rainy day bottle he thought he had somewhere in his coat closet, when he saw the bright sticky note Rita had been looking at the day before.

The note Nureyev left.

Juno picked it up too quickly. Un-creased it from its discarded form in the forgotten corner of Rita’s desk. His hands were shaking.

 _Please come assist me, dear old friend_ , the note read, in Nureyev’s looping hand.

He turned it over.

_I hope we will meet again._

It had the slight scent of wood, of flowers.

Juno carefully folded the note, placing it into his pocket as he unlocked the door to his personal office. Flicked on the light, tossed his coat aside.

He found the bottle of indeterminable liquor at the back of his closet, right where he thought he had placed it. He took a swig—it burned on the way down, just right.

Juno sat at his office desk, staring out into the night, into the city. He kept drinking the alcohol just to feel something.

Hyperion City was indeed a cruel mistress. She dug deep into the skin, into the heart with that jagged knife, begging Juno to stay. Forcing him to stay.

While Hyperion City had pulled and _pulled_ at Juno’s heartstrings, so tight that they might break, she had pulled Nureyev right back to Mars with him.

Because she was a hard city to shake.


End file.
